


Don't be a Stranger

by AngstyLlamaCrossings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst with a Happy Ending, Creepy, Everyone is Dead, Evil Gerard, Ghosts, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mysterious backstory, Tragic Romance, Werewolf Derek, fairytale, will make you cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyLlamaCrossings/pseuds/AngstyLlamaCrossings
Summary: The God of Wolves brings good fortune and plentiful harvest, the God of Wolves brings death and despair.Derek has been roaming the lands for so long that he no longer remembers who he is, where he must go, or what he must do. Until one night, he meets a stranger by the name of Stiles and suddenly everything falls into place.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	Don't be a Stranger

_Daffodils._

_Swaying in the wind._

_Laughter, from long ago._

_-_

_He was a traveller of days gone by, trudging through endless deserts and sunken oceans without a drop of water or morsel of food to sustain his aching bones._

_Still he walked, aimless as he was steadfast, one foot in front of the other. He was tired of not knowing where to go yet knew of nothing else_ that simply, he must walk. And so he did.

_He walked and he walked, never staying for more than a night, leaving as soon as the sun peeked out from the horizon. Strangers both young and old were fascinated by his travels, they often asked of his purpose, his motivation of which he could not answer, as he had neither._

Perhaps he did, but that was a long time ago now and before he knew it, the years danced into decades and so did the faces and places he encountered. From bustling cityscapes to cobbled slums, from tiny villagers to war-torn epicentres, still he walked.

 _After awhile, the people began to whisper his name._

“The Wolf God” _, they cried._

“Hear our prayers! Grant our wishes!” 

_It started out as a myth, before snowballing into a rumor and no matter where he went, the people chanted the same (“God of Wolves, what will you bring us today?”). They looked upon him for advice, for guidance and peddled for good luck charms and trinkets, claiming they contained wisps of his hair, bits of his nails, all of which sold at high prices, promising health and rejuvenation._

_He never stayed longer than one night, just enough to rest his aching feet, but rumour knows no rest and soon they approached him one by one with giant smiles on their dirty faces._

_They danced in circles, each spitting a foreign tongue. Embers rose in putrid vapours clouding their visions with untold miracles, a blind belief in things that were well beyond their control. They revered him as a god, one that brought harvest and good luck, believing, or wanting to believe, that their wishes could come true with the help of divine intervention._

_Foolish creatures._

_He ignores them and walks on, apathetic to their selfish desires and petty problems._

_Yet everywhere he went, the lands flourished, the harvest bountiful and the people rejoiced for the steady days of rain and sun, a perfect balance of yin and yang. The injured and the old were suddenly rid of their aches when he passed, some say he could make the blind see, could make the lame walk again, and it was all thanks to the powers of the Wolf God._ _People from far and wide flocked the country in search of him, truly convinced that he possessed a one-stop miracle cure._

_Unfortunately, a selfish king had also heard the rumor and wanted the Wolf God’s powers for his own selfish means. The rumours had gathered attention and spun so completely out of control that by the time they reached the king's ears, they had crossed the realms of incredibility. As it went, the flesh of the Wolf God was said to possess unearthly powers that unlocked the secret to eternal life; that one bite of its still-beating heart would render one’s body indestructible, thereby quintessentially attaining immortality._

_The One True King would rule forever, without opposition, without mercy. The Argent bloodline would live on forever and all King Gerard had to do was send out a decree to capture the God of Wolves._

_So thousands upon thousands of imperial soldiers scoured the land, combing through dense forests and rolling mountains in plaintive search of the elusive god. Few came dangerously close but left unsupervised, many turned to terrorizing the villagers instead._

_They dragged innocents from their homes, pillaged and looted whatever they could find. The men fought in vain, crossing silver swords with rusty rakes while the women were raped in broad daylight. Children went missing, never to be found again._

_Soon, the people changed their tune._

_Instead of welcoming strangers with food and shelter, they threw stones and torched the bodies, for fear they were really soldiers in disguise. The once lush landscape was now dyed a deep pink, blushing in bloodied greenery. In a cosmic chain of events, the crops began to wither, drowning in deep-seated grudges, beating to the torrential march of snowstorms and crisp hail._

_Their hatred carried through the trees, whispers from one wood nymph to another (“O Lord of the Wolves, what will you bring us today?”)._

"Death. Destruction. Chaos!"

_And still, he walked._

_Even as the bright light of the warm summer sun began to fade like the colours of his eyes, he walked on, unperturbed by the suffering of the people, unconcerned with the blood that stains his claws._

_But unbeknownst to him, something had indeed changed. As if by a self-fulfilling prophecy, he became the very thing that the people believed him to be - a beast, a monster, the bringer of the apocalypse._

_He kept himself to himself, even more so than before, avoiding human settlements as best as he could. It was more difficult now however, as the humans had laid traps in a preemptive strike against possible attacks from the outside and he had to spend more time and energy to outmanoeuvre every single one of them._

_Instead of the Wolf God, the villagers found woodland creatures maimed, injured or killed in the traps instead, their carcasses piling high into a flea-bitten sky._

_And so, the cycle of rot continued.  
  
_

* * *

_  
_ It’s nightfall.

The trees are alive with nocturnal screams, tiny scuttling noises could be heard all over the forest floor. A lone male crawls through the foliage, keeping his head down low on the ground to avoid being seen. He can’t heart a heartbeat for miles and miles but it never hurts to be careful. The humans were getting cleverer these days, more resourceful. They had magic and tech that Derek had not seen before and he will not be fooled a second time. 

As he makes his way through the darkness, the branches above begin to thin, parting like velvet curtains on center stage. Lady lunar makes a swift appearance, twirling in and out of the gaping pines, revealing the crooked silhouette of a small hut.

It’s terribly run-down; seeming to keep itself upright through sheer force of will. The roof is made entirely of straw but the brick walls look sturdy enough, if not a little lopsided. From where Derek stood, it seemed to mirror the slouching figure of an old man that had the wind knocked straight out of him. Still, the little chimney at the top puffs out rings of smoke at regular intervals, stubbornly clinging on to every breath as if it would be the last.

On either side of the hut were similar homes built in such fashion, but they looked in contrast, to be dark and desolate. Only the one in the middle looked lived-in, candlelight spilling out from a lone window.

He approaches with caution, taking slow incremental steps up the garden path, half-expecting hunters to pounce out of nowhere, spellcasters blasting fireballs as big as the sun.

Nothing happens.

A passing field mouse fixes him with an odd look.

‘ _Just go in already_ ,’ it seemed to say, turning tail to scurry past a hole on the scaffolding.

He knocks on the door.

It barely takes a few seconds before an incredibly pale head pokes out, wide amber eyes that grew wider still once they took stock of Derek's hulking form. 

One stares at the other and as time stretches, so does the awkwardness.

 _'Hello'_ , he wants to say but the words are stuck in his throat. He hasn’t met a sentient being in a very long time, and it seems his mannerisms have, quite literally, left the building.

A couple more seconds pass in relative silence, until the shaved head raises its chin and begins to speak in the most judgmental tone Derek had ever heard in his life.

“Who are you? And what do you want.” the voice demands, belying the soft quivering hidden beneath.

“I’ve got a frying pan and I’m not afraid to u-use it!”

He's got eyebrows raised to the roof but Derek holds out his hands in mock surrender. It was now abundantly clear that he was dealing with an idiot and would have to react accordingly.

“Just a traveller looking for food and shelter” he replies, voice gruff from lack of use “That is, if you can spare it.”

The floating head blinks, before it pops away again. For a second, Derek thinks he’s been refused and resigns himself to another night spent in the cold wilderness.

As he turns to leave, the door opens just a smidgeon, enough for him to slip inside as an unwillingly welcomed guest.

He’s instantly grateful for the roaring fireplace, making a beeline for the carpet and plopping down in the corner.

TFH doesn’t seem to mind though, busying with the frying pan he’d been previously wielding like a shield.

Derek is curious about the man, who still looks very much looks like a boy and why he was alone in the first place. He doesn’t mean to be invasive though, so he keeps his eyes on the dancing flames, content to be lulled into a warm stupor.

His curiosity gets the better of him however, and his eyes wander to the knick-knacks hanging above the mantle. There was a whittled figurine of a fox right in the middle, flanked by a shiny gold star and a set of black and white pebbles on either side. On the far left was a series of pocket-sized paintings, coated heavily with dust bunnies.

He sees two little boys in the first picture, one of whom looked to be TFH himself. They had their arms around each other, a long flat stick in one hand and a bright red rubber ball in the other. The next one depicted a burly man with a strong jaw and kind eyes, he had a tomato in his hand and a look of perpetual disgust on his face. There were a few people behind him, a little girl with perfectly coiled hair and a couple trying to sneak a coveted kiss in the background.

The last portrait was of a woman in all white, leaning out of focus with a lopsided smile and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. In her hands was a bouquet, strangled at the stem by a long red ribbon.

He stares open-mouthed.

_Daffodils._

“I don’t have much.” TFH interrupts his brooding with a bowl in hand, “But I can at least give you this.”

The bowl is thrust into his face and a wooden spoon dropped into his lap. Derek peers at the green substance with great suspicion. It did not look at all edible, before he could voice his concerns however, the young man had barrelled on without him.

“There’s only the one bed but you can sleep on the floor if you like,” he points to the carpet that Derek is sitting on, crossing the small space to sit on a rickety rocking chair.

Derek grunts non-comittedly before taking a sip from his bowl.

The sensation hits his tongue like a sledgehammer and he resists the urge to spit the foul liquid back out, nearly choking on his own saliva in the process.

_What the hell was this—?_

“It’s vegan.” Comes the ready answer, “which means it’s _healthy,_ also, if you haven’t forgotten, it’s _FREE._ ” this time it’s the other man’s turn to shrug in indifference, “Take it or leave it dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” He hacks out, followed closely by a string of curse words.

“Dude,” the boy grins in response, wearing the same lopsided quirk on his lips as the woman in the photograph had done, their twin eyes amok with mischief, “Dude. Dude, Doo Doo Doooooooo—”

“Derek. My name’s Derek.” He added hastily, already regretting his decision to stay for the night.

“Cool.” The shaved heads nods ‘I’m Stiles by the way.”

Derek nods back, though that was about the stupidest name he’s ever heard in his life. _What the hell was a Stiles?_

He finishes the soup, just to be polite. And when Stiles looks away for a split second, he pours the whole damn thing into the fire. It spits in displeasure but quietens quickly, just long enough for Derek to get away with it unnoticed.

After the bowl is emptied, he leans backwards against the thatched walls, suddenly feeling very sleepy.

Stiles stares at him unabashedly, long deft fingers _tap tap_ tapping on a shaking knee. His eyes reflect the color of embers from the licking flames and Derek feels inexplicably drawn to them. Objectively speaking, Stiles was rather pretty, though 'pretty' was not a word he often used to describe the sons of men.

“You’re the Wolf God, aren’t you?”

The remark catches him off-guard, nearly dropping the spoon still gripped tight in his hand.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Stiles rushes to say, smile still firmly smeared on his face “no offence, but the sideburns kinda gave it away.” He tilts his head to demonstrate the point and Derek follows the motion in tandem, suddenly self-conscious about his full beard and thick facial hair.

He needs a shave.

Stiles apparently, seemed to agree.

“C’mon big guy,” he says with a giant huff, as if burdened with the weight of the entire world, rolling up the sleeves of his long white tunic in resignation. It was as if Derek was a pest that had to be dealt with immediately, lest the young man be faced with an infestation.

“We’ve gotta get you cleaned up.”

When Derek makes no move to acknowledge him, the round button nose scrunches in disgust, “And on that note, when was the last time you had a shower? You smell like death warmed over. Again, no offence dude.”

A part of him wants to lash out at being so blatantly patronised, but Derek concedes that the human had a point. He did stink. Also, he secretly wants that shower but no one needed to know that.

Getting up at a begrudging pace and with as much dignity as he could muster, he follows Stiles out the backdoor.

There’s nothing much behind the hut, just a chicken coop in the corner surrounded by a metal fence. A few feet away was a wooden gate and beyond that stood a stone well, its slanted wooden ridges looking worse for wear. Stiles gestures to the pulley as Derek peers down the open valve, captivated by the rippled surface of a beaming moon.

What was more interesting however, was the vertical stone tablet situated right next to the water pump. It was unmarked and Derek frowns in poorly-concealed curiosity.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles interjects before the question can leave his lips. Deciding that perhaps it was best to take the young man's advice, Derek resolutely does not think about it. He does not think about bathing naked next to a dead body. Not at all.

He’s directed to two wooden buckets and Stiles demonstrates how to work the lever in order to pull the rope back up again, keeping an eye on the cog mechanism as he did so. The dated mechanism groans in lament, creaking with every effort at defying the laws of gravity. Stiles groans alongside it, throwing in colourful curse words every few minutes.

Derek doesn’t have the heart to tell Stiles that Wolf Gods have supernatural strength, choosing instead to sit quietly as the human spewed out every imaginable filth in existence.

By the end, Stiles is huffing and puffing, looking properly disheveled but undeniably proud of his handiwork. He turns to find Derek wit a wolfish smirk on his unfairly handsome face, bidden with obscene thoughts that had no place for a complete stranger.

There's barely time to thank him before Stiles had disappeared into the house, leaving Derek alone out in the open.

Taking the boy's absence as a permit to his privacy, he strips and dunks the first bucket of water over his head.

The temperature is frigid but feels refreshing on his skin, softening years of grime and callouses. He feels more awake than ever, the last vestige of fatigue leaving his bones as the rivulets travelled down his limbs and into the soil. He sighs in content, despite knowing that the comfort would be short-lived. Tomorrow, he'll be on his own again, continuing on his journey though he knew not the destination.

Long after he's done, Stiles had yet to return and the backdoor was still firmly shut. He waited for the young man to return, presumably with a fresh set of clothes but truth be told, he did not mind the nakedness. Preferred it, in fact, to the heavy garments that weighed him down. 

With nothing to do, he stalks over to the other huts, finding them empty as he had initially concluded.

High above the harvest moon beams down in greeting, illuminating a winding path through the coveted darkness of the night air.

Curiosity peaked, he follows it.

He’d barely taken a few steps before the bushes fan out and he finds himself smack dab in the middle of a small meadow.

 _Daffodils._

Daffodils as far as the eye could see, tiny things that swayed in the wind, tickling the frayed edges of a punctured mind. Such fragile things they were, bending to the whims of the world. How easily they drooped, rotting black with dust and soot and ash. 

The wind gushes and howls in familial cries, carrying with it the sweet perfume of days gone by.

With the blink of an eye, he remembers.

How vivd the colours, how piercing the screams.

The daffodils, they were in bloom that day.

“Derek?”

He swerves around, heart beating loud in his chest.

But it was only Stiles, hands on his hips like a mother hen. “There you are!” He proclaims in exasperation, “thought you ghosted me dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” He answers, though it’s mostly reflex by now.

Stiles rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh but there’s a shy grin on his face. He gestures to a wooden stool in one hand and holds up small razor in the other, “Let’s just get this over with before I decide to slit my wrists instead.”

The dark humor seems out of place and Derek ekes out a guffaw despite himself. 

Stiles gestures for him to sit and he does so willingly, though not before contemplating every means of escape. Finally, he mans up and accepts the act of kindness with all the grace of a grizzly bear.

Long deft fingers direct his head backwards and he relaxes into the hold, relinquishing control.

The cold water from before had dried out his skin, making it difficult for the blade to go over the epidermis without risking a cut but Stiles takes it slow, gliding across each follicle at a glacial pace. Little by little, long dark hair fell in soft tufts, lining the tiny white petals of each daffodil.

There’s no mirror and no way of confirming that Stiles wasn't just shaving him bald, but he stays entranced anyway. Watching patiently as the expert fingers worked their magic, cupping the sides of his face like he was something precious, something to be savoured. They slid down to his lips and further still to his neck, before coming back up again to the sensitive expanse of skin right below his ears.

It felt sexual in the way that he knows it isn’t but wishes it was. Half the time he expects a stray hair to get stuck, to get nicked or grazed by the blade. But it doesn’t happen, and he can’t help wondering how Stiles got so good with a knife when he could barely make soup.

(Perhaps that was a question best reserved for theologists.)

“All done.”

Stiles declares, after an inordinate amount of time had passed. “I think I did a pretty good job, all things considered” his mole-splattered cheeks widened in genuine surprise.

“My, my don’t we look handsome all cleaned up?”

Derek blushes, surprised by the honesty behind those words. He jerks up to turn away in embarrassment but the fingers are still cupped firmly around his face, bright ambers blazing into his own sea of grey-green-blue.

It’s only know that he realizes how deeply the razor is pressed against his jugular, dipped right next to the hollow of his Adam’s apple. It bobs up and down precariously, a buoy lost to the overwhelming force of the vast oceans.

The tense silence continues for a tad too long and all at once, _he knows_.

“They took him away.”

Stiles states matter-of-factly “My Dad, I mean.” He continues, gliding the tip of the knife from one end to the other.

“He was all I had left.”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut.

He’d heard this story before. Many times now, and one more tragic than the next.

“Then they killed everyone else.”

The words settle like sediments in a river and Derek nods in understanding, except he can’t move his head so he blinks slowly instead.

“They say if I bring you to the king, they’ll give him back.” Stiles sniffs.

They both knew that it was a lie but neither one of them was brave enough to admit it.

“I have to get him back.”

 _'He’s already dead'_ are words he wants to say but cannot, for fear the young man before him may fall apart completely. It is the only kindness he can offer in return for all the kindness he had received.

“I know.” He answers instead, lips barely moving.

“No you don’t.”

Amber eyes gloss over in frosty hues and Derek wants so badly to reach up and wipe them away but he’s well and truly trapped and he can’t move.

“I have to get him back.”

The blade around his neck shakes and shivers, cutting shallow slits into his veins. They burst open like flower petals, mixing with the sweet scent of daffodils. It clings heavily in the air, cloying at the very marrow of his bones.

“Do it.”

He mumbles, and once the words escape his lips, he knows them to be true, that in his heart of hearts, he knows, he's always _known_.

He’s been looking for someone like Stiles for a very long time, for someone who could overpower him, not through the force of a thousand men, but through the steel-cut wit of a single trickster.

All that time spend walking and now he had finally found what he was looking for. Who knew that he had been looking for Stiles all along?

_What a relief._

“Do it.”

He repeats, guiding the long deft fingers to the pointed tip of the silvery slick knife, mimicking a stabbing motion right through the middle - the quickest, cleanest way.

Stiles was visibly trembling now, fighting the onslaught of a panic attack.

Blunt human teeth bit on chapped lips, hard enough to bleed as tears fell in unabashed waves. From any other perspective, it looked like Derek was the one holding the weapon instead, observing with calm indifference as his victim begged and pleaded for his life.

Except, it was Derek’s life.

“Do it.” He urges.

The knife hovers inches into the air, sparkling with magnificent starlight. It glints with glee, puckered lips thirsty for a deep drink for which it had been denied for far too long.

“I can’t, I can’t, I—”

Even as the words bubbled out in a muddled froth, long deft fingers tighten around an engraved hilt, positioning itself for optimum trajectory.

_Do it, do it, do it._

It comes down in one fell swoop.

Stiles gapes down at him through an open mouth, formed into a perfect 'O'. It’s so wide that it eclipses the moon, swallowing up the darkness in one big gulp.

“Oh god, what have I done? Oh god, oh god, oh—“

His vision drops, head lolling to the side as liquid life drained from his body. 

The last thing he sees are red-spotted daffodils.

_Huh, they look nicer this way.  
  
_

* * *

  
He’s in a field.

The grass is tall around him.

He looks up at the crescent moon, sharp as a sickle. It’s quiet.

No chirruping of crickets or hooting of owls, everything is completely silent. 

_Weird._

He makes his way forward, swiping past each blade of grass in a bid to cover more ground. The usual crunch of leaves beneath his feet is remiss, swallowed by an abyssal vacuum, negating every frequency that attempted to echo through this infinite blackhole.

After awhile, he gets tunnel vision from going nowhere, the crops growing thicker and denser the further he travelled. Using the stars as a guide, he surges with persistence and is ultimately rewarded with multiple bruises that heal as quickly as they form.

On the far left, a house looms on the horizon. It seemed to have sprung from a mound, guarded by a white picket fence and twin rows of potted daffodils on either side. The walls are brightly painted in an obnoxious yellow, acting as a beacon that guides him through the corn maze. He races towards it like a fish out of water. 

The closer he got however, the further the house seemed to be, to the point where it seemed to disappear completely, swallowed by the thick blanket of trees.

He stops, out of breath, nothing but the sound of his own scream reverberating in his ears. When he looks up, the house is right in front of him.

It doesn’t look like the same however. For one thing, it didn't have a fence, no pots of daffodils either, just the bare boned foundations of a brick house. Instead of bright yellow, the walls were painted with a starchy black, both windows obscured by layers of soot and ash.

There’s nobody there but that doesn’t stop him from raking his eyes through the clouded glass, searching for any sign of life, any evidence that this was all just a bad dream, one more in a long-standing series of nightmares.

_“Son.”_

He freezes, recognizing the deep voice. It was a woman’s voice. But it can’t be—

Long dark arms dart out from behind him, settling down on his shoulders with a heavy thud, making the hair at the back of his neck stand on ends.

 _“It’s been a long time hasn’t it? We just wanted to see your face again.”_ Another voice, this time more masculine but just as easily recognisable.

His eyes water but he can’t bring himself to look back, to stare directly into their faces, afraid to see what he had tried so hard to forget.

 _“Cat got your tongue, nephew?”_ A third voice, light and playful.

More arms appear from nowhere, circled tight around his waist, squeezing so hard that he chokes.

_“We miss you more than you know baby brother.”_

Painted nails reach out to pinch at the skin around his wrist and still, he can’t turn around.

 _“It wasn’t your fault.”_ the first pair of hands digs blades into his shoulders, whispering her last, _“But we forgive you anyway.”_

The limbs lock together in a death grip, hard enough to break his windpipe, ripping the air from his lungs. Still, his legs refuse to move, stuck in a spiralling loop.

_“And now, you must forgive yourself.”_

A pressure valve releases and he roars, throwing his head back violently as he did so.

The disjointed limbs bend and break, fluttering about like the leaves in the wind. The sounds of the forest resurge with a vengeance, an earthen orchestra crying alongside him. The moon bleeds in frames of maroon craters, berating the birth of a god and the death of her favourite child. They spin in a whirlwind of stars as the God of Wolves claws out from below layers of dirt and soil, the midnight blue storm flashing into an alpha red, a birthmark that divided the body from the spirit.

Finally he turns, but there’s only one person standing behind him.

It’s the lady from the painting.

She smiles at him shyly, holding out a bouquet of daffodils as a peace offering.

“I hope you won't hold it against him" she whispers, cocking her head to the side with an all too familiar sparkle in her eyes "He was only doing what he thought was right."

He puts two and two together before nodding.

“I know.” 

He takes the bouquet readily and it turns into a tiny razor in his palm. He drops it and it disappears as soon as it reached the ground.

She watches him with amber eyes, head dipped in approval.

“The boy you’re with…” she continues a little sadly, “is no longer here.”

Derek nods again.

“I know.”

She gestures with one hand and he follows her down a winding path. They emerge from the wheat field and into a small meadow with daffodils stretched out across the field for as far as the eye could see. They were in full bloom, shining pearlescent under the constellation of stars.

Derek was lucky he didn’t have any pollen allergies or this would have ended rather badly. The lady seemed to have clued in on what he's thinking and she chuckles before sobering quickly, staring at him straight in the eye as she spoke.

“You won’t be here for long either.”

She doesn’t mean to scare him but the wind picks up again and Derek shivers. From the cold or from something else, he doesn’t know.

He nods for the third time, unable to say more.

“Don’t worry,” she urges, as mothers do, “we’ll meet again some day, I promise.”

This time, he breaks out in a wide grin.

“Yea, okay.”

She returns his smile with one of her own and just like that, the moon eclipses.  
  


* * *

He wake up to a warm bed, wet sheets and a fountain of blubbering sobs.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry— Oh!” 

Long lashes blink open in confusion and Derek smirks wide enough to show teeth.

“You’re a-alive? But how… Mm!”

Derek rides the surge of adrenaline, moving before his brain can catch up. He pulls Stiles down to eye level, mashing their lips together in quiet desperation.

The younger man panics and flails, crashing onto the narrow bed and Derek laughs open-mouthed.

There are many things he wishes to say, ‘thank you’ being the first, and an explanation being the next, but he’s never been good with words so he puts them into action, deepening the kiss until they were both flush with fever.

It was crazy, this was _crazy_. Derek isn’t the sort to grab strangers by the hand and stick his tongue down their throat, but the world had gone crazy a long time ago and for Stiles, he was willing to lose whatever was left of his sanity.

When they part for air, Stiles stares in star-struck amber, heart beating so loud that even Derek could hear it reverberating through the thin walls of his ribcage.

“Wha— How—“

He looks at a lost for words, a feeling he’s clearly not familiar with and it causes Derek to chuckle.

“You can’t just— I mean—Huh?“

He gives the poor guy a few more seconds to catch up, surreptitiously running wanton fingers to trace a mole-studded back. Breathing in deep to memorise his mate’s scent, the alpha whines with heady .

The fire blazes with gentle licks as realization dawns on Stiles’ face.

“Dude!” He gasps in disbelief “You can’t just do that to me man, I thought you were dead, like actually _dead_ , do you have any idea how worried I was? The blade hadn't even gone that deep and you straight up fainted you absolute _wuss_. And I'm really sorry I even considered it but if we're in a rendition of Romeo and Juliet then someone needs to wake me the fu—“

“Don’t call me dude.” He interrupts, smoothing through a head of buzzed hair, savouring the short spikes on his fingertips, a firm reminder that he was still alive, still breathing and that everything would be all right.

Stiles looks like a deer caught in headlines before the silence proves too much for his frazzled nerves.

He breaks out in uncontrollable laughter, wiping relieved tears from his cheeks and before long, Derek joins in. Their bodies shake with mirth and trepidation, swaying like daffodils in the wind.

There’s no declaration, no promises, not even an excuse. But through the moonlight, through the next sunrise, Derek breaks the only rule he’s ever had.  
  


He stays.  
  


* * *

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> the white species of daffodils is also called 'Thalia'. 
> 
> Just thought you should know that :))


End file.
